A Worden Christmas
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark and the Hardcastles get together for Christmas. Owl whips up a crown roast of pork, Lewis does comfort and joy and there are THREE pints of peach schnapps in that punch.


**Disclaimer**: These characters are not ours (well, some of them are Owl's), and we make no profit from them. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead, or locations existing or historical, is purely coincidental.

**Rated**: K

**Authors' notes**: We pulled up in the hive-mobile (a '61 Studebaker Lark), and I opened the door and said, 'Hey, Owl, come on, let's take a trip to Worden. I've got some candied okra and _everything_.' She grabbed her recipe file and climbed aboard. On the way, she even convinced me that you could put a crown pork roast on the table in thirty minutes without resorting to using the dark side of the Force. Oh, and this story will make more sense if you've already read Owl's '_Portrait of Justice in Black and White'._  
LML

Cheri did the beta, and acted as the UN translator between hostile word processing programs, and insisted on—what else?—more _ending_.

**A Worden Christmas**

By

Lewis and Owlcroft, Ltd.

"You better hustle; the cab'll be here any minute."

Hardcastle stood in the entranceway to the gatehouse eyeing McCormick's choice of carry-on luggage dubiously. The briefcase was a gift from two Christmases past; its cognac-colored leather had taken on a slightly darkened patina, with age and frequent use. Right now its owner was standing over it, filled with apparent indecision, not able to pick between the two last books he wanted to cram into it.

"You've got two _months_ until the Bar exam, and we're only going to be gone a few days," Hardcastle insisted.

"And there's a fifty-percent flunk rate," Mark muttered, finally shoving Ducat's _Constitutional Interpretation_ in and latching the flap.

"Well," the judge shook his head, "your cup is not half empty on this one." He let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. "You're done; all you have to do is come back after the holidays and pick up your sheepskin. I thought maybe a little trip out of town would, I dunno, take the _edge_ off."

Mark finally hefted the briefcase and his weekend bag as well, and turned toward the older man. "Yeah," he managed a half smile, pasted over the worry, "you know I like seeing Aunt Zora and Aunt May—"

"You oughta," Hardcastle interjected. "They spoil ya rotten."

This won him a frank grin. "Yeah. They do."

"But ya don't wanna leave that briefcase here," the judge shook his head again, "just for a few days?"

"I . . . can't," Mark's smile had gone a little rueful. "You understand?" he asked hopefully. "To make it this far and then blow it?"

Hardcastle nodded. In a roundabout way he did understand, not that he shared McCormick's pessimism about _his_ chances. Then he grumbled cheerfully, "You're finally ready then? We gotta plane to catch."

"You should have let me drive," Mark insisted, for what was probably the fortieth time, as he eased past the judge and out of the gatehouse with his luggage.

"Straight across Arizona, nonstop, at ninety-five miles an hour?" Hardcastle grinned. "I'm never doing that again. Besides, I thought you liked Aunt Zora's Studebaker?"

"I'll admit," Mark smiled fondly, "it's got personality."

00000

It was a crazy pre-Christmas rush at LAX, and the same at the stopover in Dallas/Ft. Worth. It was quaintly downsized, but still chaotic, when they finally de-planed in Little Rock. Mark craned his neck as they shuffled patiently off; Aunt Zora and Aunt May were hard to spot in a crowd, but he had hopes for—

"Gerald! Hey," he elbowed Hardcastle, who frowned. He reluctantly waved at his wayward younger brother, who was standing off to the side with the two older women. Mark leaned over toward the judge's ear and hissed, "Come on; be nice. It's Christmas."

"I'm _always_ nice to him," Hardcastle protested through a grimly set smile.

And then they were swept up in hugs and hellos from the diminutive aunts, each talking over the other in cheerful greeting. Mark was examined and kissed and sent off to retrieve the luggage with promises of a proper meal "to keep your strength up" when they got home.

00000

Gerald brought the Studebaker around. Mark piled the luggage in the trunk and looked, hopefully, to be offered the keys. No such luck. He settled for the back seat, bracketed by doting aunts, leaving the front passenger seat to the judge, who'd been strangely silent since their arrival.

McCormick allowed himself one quiet sigh. The judge's distaste for his brother was fully justified, but he'd hoped the two of them might patch it up for the holiday. If Zora and May had taken any notice, they'd politely refused to acknowledge it. Instead, they'd conducted a tag-team interrogation of Mark: current girlfriend, general well-being, and future plans now that school was done.

"Oh, I'm certain you'll do just fine on that examination for the Bar," Aunt May patted his arm in gentle reassurance. "Milton passed it, didn't he?"

Mark only wished his grin felt a little more genuine.

"How can you flunk?" Gerald interjected jovially. "You've got an inside track." He gave his brother a sharp nudge with the elbow. "Friends in high places, eh?"

Mark's grin fled. He couldn't see the judge's face from his spot in the back, but there was a sudden, palpable drop in temperature, as he watched the man's shoulders stiffening.

"He'll pass," Hardcastle said, with almost frightening reserve, "because he's studied hard and knows his stuff."

He ought to have been pleased, Mark thought, at this spontaneous statement of confidence, but the mood in the little car had become so awkward that silence had fallen on them all.

It was Aunt Zora who finally broke the impasse, with an unnecessary and relieved exclamation. "Oh, look, we're almost home."

00000

They were swept up again in off-loading the luggage, and getting everyone into the house. Gerald's nervousness had lasted only as long as he'd had to sit next to his stonily disapproving brother. The aunts had scurried in, announcing that dinner would be on the table in half an hour. Mark trudged up the stairs behind the judge, bearing the luggage.

He put his suitcase down on the end of the one bed, and set the briefcase on the floor. He watched Hardcastle unzipping his own case and puttering silently with the contents.

"Okay," Mark sighed, finally interrupting this little demonstration of 'I am fine, now leave me alone'. "So, he's a jerk sometimes . . . but he's _still_ your brother."

He got the expected 'hurmph' from the older man and then, "That was an insult. He insulted _you_ . . . me, too," he added, as an afterthought.

Mark shrugged. "I don't think he meant it. It was a joke." Then he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. "It's not like I care what he thinks, anyway." There was a pause, then a frown. "You don't think other people are going to figure it that way, do you?"

"Hah," Hardcastle turned, fixing him with a look. "See? That's what he does. A little remark here, a little suggestion there. He's _careless._"

McCormick, who'd been at the receiving end of plenty of 'remarks' from the man standing in front of him, merely smiled.

"How the hell can you _trust_ a guy like that?" Hardcastle growled.

Mark looked surprised for a moment at that suggestion. Then he replied, slowly, "I don't trust him. Who would? But I kinda like him. He really _means_ well . . . most of the time."

Hardcastle was fuming quietly. "'Means well' doesn't mean _much_, ya know."

"Yeah, but it's the thought that counts, right?" Mark smiled again, then he looked thoughtful, himself, for a moment. "You ought to think of him as your own personal Teddy Hollins. Some people can't help being like that, you know?"

He looked up, hoping to see the judge relax, just a little.

"Okay," he laid it on the line, "you wanted this trip to take the _edge_ off, huh?" He watched the older man nod once, in agreement. "So," Mark continued, "you're gonna have to meet me halfway on this, at least for Zora's and May's sakes, okay?" This got a little more conciliatory nod and the beginnings of a reluctant smile.

"You think you could have a talk with him, too?" the judge said dryly.

"What am I, the Hardcastle family arbitrator?" Mark grinned. "No way. You go talk to him. Just don't punch his lights out. You'll upset your aunts."

As if on cue, they heard Aunt May's cheery voice holler up the stairs. "Dinner's ready."

00000

It was one of those thirty-minute miracles that the Hardcastle aunts were justly famous for. The centerpiece was a crown roast of pork with sausage stuffing. This was flanked by potatoes and carrots that had roasted with the pork, green beans simmered with a ham hock, and homemade rolls.

"After dinner, Zora and I have some errands to do. Maybe you could be our driver?" May nodded in Mark's direction.

McCormick smiled around a mouthful of stuffing studded with celery and apples and nodded back at her.

"And we thought you two," Zora picked up the conversation, directing herself to the two brothers, sitting across from each other and managing to be civil, "could poke around out back and find us a nice tree. You know that half-acre of pines is getting so overgrown, really about time we thinned it out a little. There's an axe in the mudroom, next to the firepot."

Mark wondered, for a moment, if sending Hardcastle out with Gerald and an axe, was really a wise move on Zora's part, but he kept his mouth shut about that. Instead, he asked, "Where will we be going?"

"Oh, over to the Baptist church," May smiled. "The community choir is having their final rehearsal for tomorrow's oratorio. We promised to bring the refreshments,mince cookies and jam cakes"

"It's selections from Handel's Messiah," Zora added excitedly. "Emily Trewaith's sister came all the way from Fort Smith to do the soprano solos."

"Sounds nice," the judge smiled, and sounded like he meant it. "I think Gerry and I can handle the tree." He gave his brother a look of such benign universal kindness that Mark thought Zora, at least, would surely call him on it.

Instead, she smiled on them both and nodded, as if in appreciation of the effort. Gerald swallowed once, and looked like he was about to ask Mark if he could trade places with him for the Baptist church run. A quick, sharp rise of the eyebrow from Zora nipped that, unspoken, in the bud.

Then the meal was over, and Mark was rising to his feet, to help the two ladies with the dishes.

"No," May insisted, "you've had a long flight. You sit right there a bit and have another piece of pecan pie. Let us take care of it."

00000

The washing-up done, and the leftovers safely stowed, May and Zora had donned their coats and were ready. The gray sky hung low, threatening rain. It was nothing at all like a California Christmas, Mark had concluded, but the warmth in the Hardcastle aunts' home made up for everything else.

"Those, there," May pointed to the two bags nearest the door. "Those are the ones that are going."

Mark began to pick them up.

"Those other containers are bourbon balls for the postman, and the Mulhaneys, and the Hawkinses," Zora added.

Mark looked up with sudden interest. "How are Ben and Martha?"

"Oh, _they're_ fine." Zora looked a little worried, as though she'd managed to raise an unfortunate memory. She continued on, as if in a hurry to get past that other thought, "Martha's going to college in Little Rock. She comes home most weekends to visit her father. Such a sweet girl. She's home for the holidays right now, too."

"That's good," Mark replied, lifting the bountifully-filled bags. "I hope we'll get to see them."

Zora gave May a nervous look and then, at a subtle nod from her elder sister, continued on, "That Jordan boy is home, too, I heard."

"We don't think he'll be any trouble," May added hastily. "He's been in the Army for three years now."

"He's done all right," Zora frowned a little, as though the idea still surprised her. "He's made corporal, they say."

"But you thought I should know?" Mark smiled. "Thanks . . . thank you both." He stepped back, while Zora opened the door for him. "You know," he said, as he maneuvered through, "people _do_ change." He caught another worried look passing between the two sisters and added, reassuringly, "And I promise I'll be careful, okay?"

00000

Hardcastle waited for the sound of the departing Studebaker before nudging Gerald off the living room sofa.

"Gotta tree to cut," he said, with a jerk of his chin toward the mudroom.

Gerald's eyelids rose slowly from half-mast. "Thought we might digest that dinner a little, first, Milt. Don't want to get a cramp."

"Might rain," the judge replied, looking a little stormy himself.

Gerald seemed to sense which way the wind was blowing and lumbered to his feet with a weary, long-suffering sigh. "Okay, tree," he said, as he followed the older man to the mudroom, snatching his jacket off the back of a chair as he passed.

Hardcastle led the way, picking up the axe that sat near the back door. Outside, the clouds glowered low, but the rain had so far held off. He spared a glance to the tool shed, noticing a slight list there for the first time. He frowned. The back porch needed a coat of paint as well, and the step leading down from the porch had a loose banister on the right. He counted off the days till their return flight, subtracting Christmas itself, and wondered if he and Mark could squeeze in a couple of maintenance projects.

His brow furrowed as he looked back over his shoulder at Gerald, hunching along behind him. "Didn't Zora and May have a fix-it guy, what was his name?—Charlie something?"

"Did," Gerald muttered. "Retired. Went to live with his son and daughter-in-law in Tarpon Springs."

"It's a lot of house," Hardcastle frowned. He'd turned around completely now, studying the structure from this perspective. Gerald nearly ran into him.

Gerald looked up, then looked back over his should as well. "Yeah, they manage, though."

"Who does the driving when we're not around?" the judge asked, pointedly.

Gerald shrugged. "Aunt Zora. May won't anymore. And Zora says she won't drive after dark, not after that scare she had with the Alton's dog. Ran right out in front of her tires. It was this close, she said." He held his thumb and finger up, about an inch apart.

"She didn't tell me about that."

"Well, you're a busy guy, Milt, important judge and all." Gerald gave him another shrug.

"I'm a _retired_ judge, Gerry, and a person shouldn't ever be too busy for family."

"Maybe they figure you'll give them sensible advice. Sell the place and move to someplace easier. You always were the one for _sensible_ advice."

Hardcastle felt his frown deepening. "There's nothing wrong with being sensible."

"But they love this old place," Gerald gestured expansively. "It's their _home_, has been for a long time."

"I know that," the judge insisted. "It just that sometimes a place gets to be too much."

"What about that rambling big place of yours?"

Hardcastle's frown turned into a scowl. "Gulls Way isn't a problem."

"No," Gerald scratched his head, "I suppose not, 'cause you have Mark, and you can hire people to come in and do the rest. What about in a few years, when he finally gets his own life?"

The judge's scowl froze. Gerald had this uncanny way of stumbling into things. _Like a bunch of monkeys on typewriters coming up with Hamlet. Dammit._

He said nothing, just turned and walked on toward the piney grove along the back of the property. Gerald continued along behind.

00000

Mark maneuvered the Studebaker in under the overhang, by the side door of the church. He let the aunts out and then eased away again, to park at the far end of the lot—Aunt Zora's request.

"I worry about the finish," she'd patted the fender of the black '61 Lark as she'd stepped out.

Mark had nodded dutifully. Now he was strolling back toward the two women, catching snatches of music wafting out on the late afternoon air—_All we like sheep, have gone astray . . . Not lately, though. _He smiled to himself, and let Aunt May take his free arm and lead him into the vestibule.

00000

Gerald had an eight-foot tree in his sights. The judge grumbled 'too tall' and was circling something just shy of the six-foot range.

"Come _on_, Milt," Gerald groaned. "It's not like your _paying_ for it."

Hardcastle flashed a look at him, then counted to at least five internally before answering with a calmer sigh, "We've got to leave the day after Christmas. I don't want Aunt Zora or Aunt May having to climb up on anything to do the undecorating, or struggling to get the thing out the back door when the holidays are over."

His younger brother had the decency to look briefly abashed. Then he brightened up. "Well, _that's_ no problem, Milt," he said expansively. "_I_ can stick around and help with it."

"You _will_?" the judge asked suspiciously.

"Sure," Gerald shrugged, "it's not like I've got anywhere I have to be right away."

"Even if you get a call from your bookie about some hot action on the East Coast?"

"Heck no. Anyway," Gerald added, without any apparent remorse, "it's not like I can't handle most of my business over the phone." He pointed to the eight-foot tree. "Besides, the kid'll like this one."

00000

It was dimly lit in the back of the basement hall of the church. Mark helped Zora unwrap the plates of jam-filled tea cakes, while May arranged the cookies and set out the napkins. The music still carried down from the floor above, favoring the bass end of the choir and the deeper notes of the organ.

Mark was humming along, half to himself—_blessing and honor and glory and power._ He caught the thoughtful look May was casting at him. "They're just about done," he said. She looked flustered for a moment and he added, "Yeah, I know parts of it. In fact, from down here it sounds a lot like the All San Quentin Choir version—a little light in the higher registers." He grinned.

Zora patted him gently on the back, "Be careful around the choirmaster, Mr. Spendle. He's always looking to draft a few more good tenors." She looked down at the table. "There now, I think we're ready."

Her musing was interrupted by a warm greeting from a middle-aged balding man, "Zora, May, I can't thank you enough."

"Rev. Busby, oh, you know it was nothing. We _like_ cooking." May smiled, nudging Mark to her side, "Do you know Mark McCormick? He's a dear friend of our Milton."

"Known by reputation only." The Reverend was leaning forward across the table, smiling and extending a friendly hand, from which Mark concluded his only reputation in Worden was from the events of three years past.

"He's a _lawyer_," Zora added proudly.

Mark felt himself flush, "Not quite," he corrected. "I still have to pass the bar."

Zora waved away this minor inconvenience with a little gesture. Busby was pumping his hand vigorously, as if to add his own congratulation. Mark managed a set smile. _And I won't be coming back here next year if I don't._

Then they heard the choir members coming down the stairs. May and Zora stepped back from the table and Busby drew the three of them further aside.

"Actually, there was something else I wanted to talk to you two about. It's the oddest thing." He ducked his head a little lower and guided them in the direction of the cloakroom.

Mark drifted along behind. He'd watched Zora's eyes light up at the change in Reverend Busby's tone, and May seemed to be hanging on the man's words now with extra attention.

"It's the charity gift drive," Busby looked over his shoulder, then lowered his voice even further. "I probably wouldn't have checked the gifts, except that yesterday one of the windows was open a crack—that one at the back of the hall that doesn't latch properly—and I was fairly certain I hadn't left it that way.

"So," he let out a sigh, as though he wished he didn't have to say the next part, "I looked around, just to make sure everything was all right and, I might not have noticed it, but Emma—that's my wife," he added in aside to Mark, "had pointed it out special to me the day before, that blue snowsuit you ladies had brought, the one we'd set aside for the Arlatches' little boy, it was _gone_."

The Reverend took in a heavy breath, now that the whole sad tale was lying out there, exposed. He shook his head sadly. "I don't know why anyone would do such a thing."

Mark heard that, but more importantly, caught the look the two sisters had exchanged. He would have sworn that, at that moment, a decision had been silently debated and mutually agreed upon.

"Well, now," Zora said briskly, "the drive was such a rousing success this year. I wouldn't be at all surprised if things got a little shuffled about." May was nodding along. Zora continued cheerfully, "You ought to let us have a look back there."

"But maybe a little later," May added.

"Perhaps tomorrow," Zora smiled. "We have some more cookies to bake today."

"And a tree to decorate," May said, then frowned briefly. "I hope."

Mark felt both of them attach themselves to his arms and steer him toward the door.

"We'll pick up the plates tomorrow," Zora added with a smile over her shoulder. "Don't let anybody fuss over washing them."

And, with that, they were up the steps and out.

00000

The eight-foot tree yielded to a combination of axe and mild cussing, with both men occasionally looking over their shoulders to make sure the Studebaker hadn't returned. The conversation, such as it was, had dwindled to a few remarks from Gerald about the value of chain saws. Eventually they got to the dragging-it-home part, though Gerry made one last suggestion that Mark might enjoy this bit and maybe they ought to wait for him.

For this he got a stern look from the judge, after which he shut up for a few moments and pulled as instructed. Perhaps it was the mention of Mark again, that had gotten the younger Hardcastle brother to thinking on it, but it was only a few moments later that he blurted out—

"That Jordan kid is back in town, I hear."

Hardcastle stopped in his tracks and cast a sharp glance aside at him.

"I didn't know if they'd told you, Zora and May," Gerald said haltingly. "I heard them talking about it the other night."

"You mean you eavesdropped," Milt said brusquely.

"It's not _that_ big a house; can't help but hear what's being said sometimes."

Hardcastle grunted, and started pulling again. He couldn't object too much, being both concerned, and glad to have been informed.

"They didn't tell you, huh?" Gerald shrugged, his pulling lightening up some. "Well, they probably didn't want to upset you."

The judge said nothing to this; he just kept pulling. _The question was, did Jordan know Mark was back in town?_

00000

"Okay, you two," Mark had said nothing, until he'd brought the car around, and gotten the two ladies stowed safely inside, "what's the deal? First you act like nothing's up, then you give the walking tour of the grounds of the Worden Baptist Church, then you do all that 'hmming' and 'ahhing', and you point at, what, some _truck tire tracks_? This is Worden; the pick-ups practically outnumber the citizens here."

"Oh, Mark," May sighed, "you're spending too much time with Milton, I think. You are developing such a _suspicious_ nature."

And that was all the answer he got from them.

00000

Everyone agreed, it was the finest tree they'd ever had, even though Mark and the judge couldn't quite agree as to whether it was leaning a bit to the left, or to the right. Gerald, who was, by default, working down below, at the stand, gave each of the screws another half-turn for good luck and stood up.

"There, it's perfect," he announced.

Zora fetched the pitcher of water and May held up the first strand of popcorn and cranberries. "Just perfect," they spoke in near-unison and further corrections were voted down by a plurality.

"The oratorio is tomorrow afternoon," Zora said, as Mark and the judge started passing the first string of lights around the bottom branches, and Gerald retired to the sofa, exhausted.

"Two o'clock," May added. "We have some errands to run in the morning. Can we borrow you again for that, Mark?"

Mark kept his eyebrows down and his eyes on the tree. "Sure." He managed to keep all of the questioning tone out of his answer.

"You two don't mind fending for yourselves, do you?" Zora asked the older two men.

"Nah," Hardcastle replied lightly, "Gerry and I have a couple of things to do, too."

He patently ignored the surprised glance he got from McCormick.

Mark held his curiosity all the way through the placement of the tinsel and ornaments. He'd almost forgotten about it by the time they finished the cookies and hot cocoa, liberally laced with cinnamon and brandy. It was only when he came back from a half-doze, at a sharp nudge from Hardcastle, and had made it all the way upstairs, that the thought returned to him.

"You and Gerald have things to do, huh?" he asked as he turned down the covers on his bed.

"Yeah," Hardcastle admitted with a half-smile. "Some chores."

"Chores? Is that what you call it when you do things with Gerald?" Mark was lying down, now, grinning up at the ceiling.

"Nope, chores is what you call it when you make yourself useful. I'm gonna do a few things that need doing around here and Gerald's gonna _help_," the older man said stubbornly.

"Ah . . . the back porch?"

"Yeah, that and a couple other odd-jobs. I gave Ben Hawkins a call this evening while you were out chauffeuring. He's got a workshop in his garage, table saw, all those things."

Mark felt his grin shift. "Saw?" he asked, a little nervously. "You know what you're doing with that stuff?" He'd seen Hardcastle under the hood of a car and the results weren't always pretty.

"Well, some," Hardcastle admitted vaguely. "Do you?"

"Yeah, vocational high, remember? Four different ones, if you want to be precise. Anyway, I know where not to put my fingers, which is the important thing."

"But you gotta keep the aunts busy," Hardcastle replied. "And, anyway, tomorrow we'll probably only have time to buy the supplies and maybe fix that leak in the pipe under the sink and put a coat of paint on the back porch. Those oughta be a pretty safe jobs."

There was a moment of silent relief from the younger man. Then he heard Hardcastle shifting. "You know," he heard the older man hesitate; he sounded more tense. Then, "You know that Jordan kid is in town."

"Yeah," Mark said matter-of-factly, "he's home on leave."

The scowl was almost audible. "Everybody knew but me."

"You asked Ben Hawkins about him?" Mark deftly changed the direction of the conversation. "What'd he say?"

"He says the kid's turned around. He thinks." There was a pause of uncertainty. "At least he hasn't been kicked out of the Army."

"He made corporal," Mark pointed out. "He's doing a second hitch."

"He busted a couple of your ribs, and you reported him to the cops," the judge pointed out in return. "So if you see him while you're out tomorrow, I'd kinda like you to avoid him."

"Aw, come on, Judge, even if he was still holding a grudge, I don't think he could get the drop on me one-on-one. After all, you took out his old man."

After a moment of embarrassed silence from the other man, Mark said, "Sorry," though it was clear that he still thought the incident had been too justified to be alarming.

And, on the further silence that followed that single word, he fell asleep.

00000

He awoke to see the muted light of another cloudy day, but morning, most certainly, and the bed opposite his already empty with the covers turn neatly back up. Mark stretched and climbed out of his own bed, glancing down guiltily at his briefcase, untouched since his arrival. _You've got two months._ And then another, more insistent inner voice added, _You've only got two months._

He sighed, and headed for the bathroom. There wasn't anything he could do about it this morning; he had an engagement with Zora and May.

As he finally headed down the stairs, to the sound of pleasant voices and clinking silverware, he saw that even Gerald had beaten him to the breakfast table. Of course, it was no wonder considering the breakfast the aunts felt appropriate for their male relatives. The pancakes were tender, the bacon home-cured, the fried potatoes crisp, and the biscuits gone two minutes after Mark seated himself.

McCormick cleaned up the last of his crumbs, increasingly aware that the aunts were being politely impatient. "Time to go?" he finally admitted.

"Yes," May piped. Zora nodded.

"Okay," Mark grinned, "but the judge says if we run into that Jordan kid, I'm supposed to behave."

This got a startled look from the two aunts, and the appearance of a quick inner soul-searching to determine who had told what to whom.

"Well," May finally conceded, "I suppose the proper thing to do is simply ignore him."

"Yes," Zora chimed in, "cross the street. Don't even give him the time of day."

Mark smiled at this image of etiquette, and realized it wasn't far off from some advice he'd been given by Buddy Denton, back in San Quentin. "Always worked for me," he replied cheerfully.

He rose, added his plates to the small stack in the sink, and led the way to the hall closet.

00000

"The first thing we need to do," Zora instructed, once they were all fastened in and the Studebaker was in motion, "is drive over to Clarence."

"Yes," May agreed, "Sara Jane's Children's Boutique. We need a replacement snowsuit."

Mark gave this a little nod, then asked, "You mean we aren't going to be running down clues?"

Zora and May both sat primly, as if he'd suggested something vaguely improper. Mark sighed. There was an unseasonable nip to the air. He supposed the Arlatch boy would need a snowsuit; even Aunt Zora and Aunt May had their priorities. But he'd learned, from extensive experience, not to trust that prim and disinterested look from anyone even distantly related to Milton Hardcastle.

Sara Jane herself waited on the aunts, showing them something blue and very warm looking.

"No," May said, after a hesitant look at her sister. "Something a little smaller."

"And in yellow, or green," Zora added.

The two of them conferred over the new selections and made their choice with a fair degree of efficiency. Sara Jane did the wrapping and they were back in the car in short order.

"To the church?" Mark asked.

"No, not yet," Zora said. "The oratorio doesn't start until two."

"We'll need to get those blue cheese wafers done before then," May added.

"Home, then?" Mark inquired patiently.

"Not _yet_," Zora replied.

00000

The Brothers Hardcastle strolled side-by-side in from the outskirts of town. Milt walked with his hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets, head down. Gerald hailed the barest of acquaintances with a hearty Merry Christmas.

After the fourth or fifth such greeting, all happily returned, the judge lifted his head and studied his younger brother with peculiar intensity. After a moment of this, Gerald paused in mid-step and asked, nervously, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Milt replied, almost pleasantly. There was a pause, a little strained on Gerald's side.

"What, then?" the younger brother said, "I mean, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Ahh," the judge smiled for a moment and then replied, "the kid's right; you _are_ Teddy Hollins."

"Teddy who?" Gerald asked, puzzled.

"An old friend of his, nice guy. I like him. A little goofy."

Gerald looked utterly baffled. "You like him?"

"Well, yeah," Hardcastle admitted. "Mark's right. Maybe I could like you, too, if we didn't have all this . . . baggage."

"You mean—"

"If you weren't my brother; if I didn't have all these damn _expectations_ . . . you know?" Milt was simply standing there, hands still in his pockets, cocking his head to study the man in front of him. "You're a pleasant, friendly guy," he went on. "Mark likes you. If I met you at a baseball game, we'd probably strike up a conversation. You'd be very knowledgeable about the players; we'd talk stats. I'd introduce myself." He took his right hand out of his pocket. "Milt Hardcastle." He held his hand out.

Gerald stood there for a moment, staring down at it, then up at the man who was holding it out to him. He hesitated, then extended his own. "Gerald," he said, in none of his usual boisterous tone. "Gerry Hardcastle."

"Small world," Milt replied as he shook the other man's hand, "we have the same last name."

00000

"Turn here," Zora pointed, at a road that was barely a road, not far before the outskirts of town. What had probably been two ruts was starting to show signs of overgrowth, and what was left of the path led back to a break in the tree line.

"We're following a clue, aren't we," Mark said it as a statement, not a question.

"Not exactly," May reassured him kindly. "More of a certainty."

He coaxed the Studebaker over the rutted path and past the trees. In the clearing beyond, stood a ramshackle house, most definitely abandoned, and a barn that was in somewhat better shape, not on the verge of collapse, at any rate. In the yard was a truck, a painfully-familiar GMC of nearly the same vintage as the judge's former vehicle. Someone had put a homemade shell on the back, and through the window on the side of that, someone's carefully stacked belongings could be seen.

Mark stopped the car. "They may not want visitors," he said firmly to the two older women.

"Nonsense," Zora insisted right back. "It's Christmas Eve."

"Do you _know_ them?"

"Not yet," May said serenely, with the tone of someone who intended to rectify that. "We saw the tire tracks leading up here a week ago, after the rain. Mr. Kenicott, the man who owned this farm, he passed about a year ago. His children live in Little Rock and we knew they hadn't found a buyer yet."

"We think there's a young woman," Zora picked up the thread without a break. "We saw her in town three days ago, with a baby. She was in the market—"

"But shopping very slowly," May added, "like when you have to add up every penny." She said this with the certain assurance of a woman who'd had to do the same herself at some point in her life.

A thin young man had appeared at the door of the barn, looking wary. Mark recognized a kindred spirit, as much as he didn't want to rely on first impressions in this situation.

The sisters were already out of the car, smiling. Zora had the box under her arm. Mark hustled to catch up and to station himself between the ladies and their newfound acquaintance. To his surprise, the man merely nodded, and then said, "We was just passing through; we can be out of here in an hour." There was not a glimmering of hostility or defiance in his voice, just weariness and no surprise that things had taken one more turn for the worse.

"Oh," Zora said, "none of that, young man. I don't think anyone's used this place in a year or more," and she said it with a quiet acceptance that seemed to take for granted that people would occasionally find it necessary to live in barns.

Just then a soft soprano voice called out hesitantly from within, "Everything okay, Dan?"

"Your wife?" Zora asked, "We'd love to meet her. We're neighbors, really. Our place is just down the road."

The young man managed a puzzled smile and gestured with absurd formality to the open door of the barn. "My wife, Lisa, and our son." He raised his voice a little, "Things is fine, hon; we just got us some company."

Mark brought up the rear of the little procession. There were enough chinks in the walls to let in natural light, along with the cold air. The year-old bales of straw were musty, but the man had fashioned them into a serviceable room, with a pile of loose straw in one corner topped with a quilt. Propped here and there were the more useful of their scant belongings.

The woman stood there, in loose jeans and a jacket that wasn't up to the day's temperature. Balanced comfortably on her hip was a baby, of perhaps six months, encased in a blue snowsuit that was several sizes too big. The woman looked both surprised and ashamed. Mark knew the latter wouldn't last long against an onslaught of practical affection from the aunts.

He stepped back toward the door and left them to it, gesturing for the man to follow him. He walked off away from the barn, out of earshot of the women. When they'd put some distance between them and the others, he turned abruptly and asked him straight out, "Dan what?"

"Postgate. Daniel Postgate," the younger man answered without a hitch.

"Where from?"

"Memphis, but born in Bartlett."

Mark kept his gaze steady, his eyes unaccusing. "You in any trouble? Any warrants?"

The younger man shuffled his feet, but didn't appear to take any offense. "No," he finally answered. "Ain't done any time, either," he added, with just a touch of sullenness. "Well, a little in juvie camp but that was years ago."

"How old _are_ you?" Mark asked.

"Twenty-one."

"And her?" He looked over his shoulder.

"Nineteen. We're married."

"Well, that's good," Mark said, with a sincerity that made the younger man lift his head and meet his eyes again. "So," he continued, "it's just breaking and entering and snowsuit theft so far."

"I," the man hesitated, as if it embarrassed him to say it. Then he finally blurted it out, "The damn truck broke down. I had a job lined up in Dallas; that was three weeks ago. We've been stuck here for a week. Ain't got the money to fix it, don't got enough to get on a bus, and, hell, what would we do with our stuff? The nights was getting colder. Billy was crying, couldn't sleep. Leese said she thought it was the cold."

"It was a _church_," Mark said, with mild exasperation. "You coulda asked; they _like_ helping people."

Dan gave him a blank look, like a man who'd heard the word 'no' so many times that he wasn't exactly sure what 'yes' meant anymore.

"Never mind," Mark shook his head. "Just don't do it again, okay?" He looked over his shoulder again. The aunts were apparently still paying their social call. "Listen, what was wrong with the truck?"

"Overheating, maybe a valve."

"We could fix that," Mark gave the ancient beast a considering look, "if we had the tools. Zora and May probably know somebody. But parts are kinda hard to come by for those."

"Doesn't matter," Dan exhaled. "The Dallas job is gone. I'm ten days overdue; they've filled it by now. But it'd be nice to have it running."

"What was the job?" Mark asked.

"Construction."

Mark frowned. "Don't tell me, carpentry? But the donkeys are back over at Zora and May's place."

Dan looked quietly puzzled. "No, ductwork mostly, some pipefitting. I do insulation, too. But I know my way around wood tools; I did vocational school."

"How many?"

"Three," Dan allowed himself a small smile, as though no one had ever bothered to ask. "My folks moved around a lot."

Aunt Zora and Aunt May had reemerged from the barn. Zora now had a blue snowsuit draped limply over her arm. The box was gone. "Mark, dear," she smiled, "we'd better get moving if we're going to make it to the oratorio. Time's a-wasting."

Mark gave the other man a quick smile and a nod. "Stay warm." Then he opened the door of the Studebaker for the two women and got them settled back inside.

May rolled her window down and sang out cheerfully, "We'll see you later, young man." Dan stood there, looking slightly stunned.

McCormick climbed behind the wheel and started the car up, easing it over the tussocks and back to the road.

"Such a cute baby," May smiled, as she finished her farewell wave and turned back to the front.

"And the suit is a perfect fit," Zora added. "You were right, nine months size; it leaves them a little room to grow." She looked down at her lap where the slightly-used snowsuit rested. "We'll need to hurry to get this washed and dried before we go."

00000

The three of them dashed into the house. The drizzle that had chased them home had progressed to a full rain. Aunt Zora headed straight for the laundry room, while May bustled into the kitchen to make certain that no meals would be missed with their busy schedule.

Mark only had time for a quick nod to the other two men before he was put in charge of getting the table set and, within a half hour, May was calling them all to eat. By then Mark had noticed something, or, rather, noticed the _absence_ of something, from the other room. _Quietly non-contentious, that's what it is._

He frowned as the Hardcastle brothers filed into the dining room, with Gerald seeming unusually subdued. The quietness continued through the meal, right up through the point where Zora folded her napkin and announced, "We'd better get ourselves ready."

Mark was allowed to help with the clearing off, then sent post-haste to his room, where he found the judge, already donning a sweater that had been a gift from his aunts the Christmas before.

"How was your morning?" he asked Mark casually.

"Nice," Mark replied, after a moment's consideration. "We went shopping for a snowsuit over in Clarence."

The judge's eyebrows were up. "That must have been . . . interesting."

"It was okay. What did you do? Gerald seems a little quiet. You didn't yell at him or anything, did you?" Mark asked cautiously.

"Nah," Hardcastle briefly considered a bowtie, then rejected it. "Nothing like that."

"How did the 'chores' go?"

"Not too bad. Couldn't paint on account of the rain. Got the leak fixed, and a couple of other little things."

"You didn't take care of the railing yet, did you?"

"No, don't know when we'll get to that."

"Good," Mark said decisively. "I got a better job for you, something you're good at. You still know the police chief, don't you?"

"Yeah, same guy as last time we were here. We stopped in today and said 'hi'."

"I shoulda figured," Mark grinned. "Okay, then it won't be too hard to do a little background check." He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. "This is what you do best—better than power tools, that's for sure." He handed over the paper.

Hardcastle looked down at it. "Daniel Postgate? What do you need to know?"

"Anything that might make you not want your aunts, or anyone else around here, to hire him as a fixit guy. I made them promise they wouldn't make him an offer until you cleared him, but May says once the Ladies' Guild over at the Baptist church gets a look at the baby, the Postgates will have to beat them off with a stick."

"He has a baby?"

"And a wife, and a GMC with a valve problem, but I can probably fix that. And Aunt Zora says the church has an apartment in back of the fellowship hall that's just standing empty, if he's willing to take on the janitor work there."

"You decided to go straight into arbitration from law school?"

Mark shrugged. "This town's lost most of its young people. Even that Jordan kid high-tailed it out of here. They could use someone with a strong back who's handy. May said it'll help some of the old folks keep their places a while longer."

"He's okay with that?"

"Why shouldn't he be? He'll get a place to belong. Sounds like a good deal to me."

The judge looked down at the piece of paper again. "Yeah," he said, "it does," and he folded it into his pocket.

00000

The Baptist church was filled to capacity and they had to save a seat for Aunt Zora, who had scurried off to do an unspecified task before returning to the pew. It was probably only the judge who heard her whisper 'All done,' to May as she edged into her seat.

The chorus itself appeared to consist of every able-bodied voice in Worden, and crossed at least five denominations, according to the aunts. Zora had taken on the task of keeping Gerald awake, but, miraculously, it didn't seem to require too much elbow work. They stood for the Hallelujah Chorus and by the time they got to the final 'amen', nearly everyone in the audience was, for better or worse, singing along.

As they filed back down to the cloakroom, to retrieve their things, the Reverend Busby waded through the crowd toward them, looking hopeful.

He bent toward them conspiratorially and asked, "Any luck with our little, ah, problem?"

Zora looked at May and then back at the minister, shaking her head in a sad, self-deprecative way. "Seems to be just one of life's little mysteries," she said, with great sincerity.

"But we really haven't had time to search in there thoroughly," May piped up. "I still think it might just have ended up _under_ something else."

"Yes," Zora agreed, "and do let us know if it turns up. If not, we'll just have to make other arrangements for the Arlatch boy. I think we're in for a real cold spell this winter."

The judge had caught this last bit with a new note of interest on his face. His eyes had tracked over to McCormick, who was wearing his almost patented look of gold-plated innocence, the one that meant he had his story down cold, so don't even bother to ask.

And then they were out, into the last of the afternoon light, with the sun finally breaking through the clouds for a moment. There was another couple emerging from the church, not dressed as nicely as most and younger as well. Their child, at least, Hardcastle noted, seemed to be warmly bundled in a brand-new snowsuit.

He leaned over toward McCormick's ear. "The Postgates?"

"Yup, you think you can buttonhole the police chief and put a rush on it?"

"You think May and Zora will ever let me back in the house if I _do_ get the goods on this guy?" Hardcastle replied quietly.

"Aw, come on, does he look like a serial killer?" Mark asked.

"Well," the judge smiled thinly, "to tell you the truth, he doesn't even look like a snowsuit thief."

"Good," Mark's smile was a little warmer, "we wouldn't want _that_ to get out, would we?"

00000

The rain held off but the temperature dropped. Zora made a pumpkin cobbler and May put the lima beans to soak. The three men sat in the living room, watching _It's a Wonderful Life,_ with Mark, at least, feeling occasional twinges of guilt.

"Do they ever stop?" he asked, although, after four years, he knew the answer was no.

Hardcastle shrugged. "It's an art form for them . . . and if they didn't have cooking as an outlet, we might all be in a lot of trouble."

"I heard that, Milton," Aunt Zora sniffed as she came into the living room bearing a platter of sandwiches. "Mark," she placed them on the table next to him, "I ran into Father Dupre at the oratorio this afternoon. He told me that even though they call it 'midnight Mass' you really ought to get there by eleven-thirty."

Mark gave her a bemused smile. "Midnight Mass?" He checked his watch. "I think I'm going to take a nap." He grabbed a sandwich and headed for the stairs.

00000

He awoke, from a very appropriately deep and dreamless sleep, to the familiar sound of Hardcastle telling him that it was time to get up. He blinked a couple of times in drowsy confusion; it wasn't like he'd never had to get up before dawn, but this had an altogether different feel, and then he remembered he was expected to be leaving for church soon.

He looked out the window and saw the landscape lit by a moon just shy of full. It could almost have passed for snow. "Not many stars tonight," he said, almost to himself.

"Can't have everything," Hardcastle smiled. And then, almost as if he'd been reading the younger man's mind, "No snow, either."

"Oh," Mark checked his watch, "we've still got an hour and fifteen minutes; it's not too late for that." He got up slowly and stepped into his shoes. "You don't have to wait up for me."

"Wait up?" the judge asked, "Nah, I'm going along."

Mark stopped looking for his sweater and turned, casting a puzzled expression at the older man that suddenly cleared with a moment's insight. "Come on, Judge. You think the guy's gonna lay for me on Christmas Eve, do ya? And, anyway, I haven't even _seen_ him since I got here."

"Okay, so, I just have a hankering for carols by candle light," Hardcastle smiled firmly. "I'm going with you."

Mark frowned, but he hadn't been left much room to launch an argument and, _what the heck, it'll be nice to have some company for the walk._ He coaxed the frown up into a smile and said, "Sure, okay, but don't blame me if you fall asleep face down in your turkey tomorrow."

00000

There were carols by candlelight, and incense, and a cascading peal of bells that came at the conclusion of the Mass. And if the congregation of St. James' was to be believed, there would indeed be joy to the world, and no thorns infesting the ground whatsoever.

And, to complete it all, as they came out into the cold night, the moon was gone behind a fast-moving cloud cover that was already leaving a light dusting of snow. The two of them stood there, in the open doorway of the church, the rapidly departing crowd already dispersed to their cars.

Mark said, "See? I told you," as he held out a hand, palm up. "Does it do this often?"

"Once in a while," the judge turned his collar up. "Doesn't last, though."

"Been a while since I've seen it. Looks nice."

"Better than an ice storm." The judge was digging in the pocket of his coat for something.

Mark took a deeper breath of the crisp air, and smiled. "Okay, not every day, but it's nice once in a while."

"Every seven, maybe eight years." He'd finally fished it out and was holding it up. "Here."

"What?" Mark looked down at what he was holding.

"It's a Christmas present. For the guy who has everything."

"Who says I have everything?" Mark grinned.

"You got a law degree, two doting aunts who spoil ya rotten—"

"Snow on Christmas—"

"A really sharp-looking car—"

"A nice set of lock picks—"

For this, he got a whack on the shoulder and a growl, "Well, go ahead and open it."

Mark grinned again and fumbled with the small package, pulling off the plain white tissue paper to reveal a small leather box that looked like it had a few years on it. He looked up again, with a puzzled smile before he stepped back over into the light from the doorway and opened it.

A medal, gold, with a fine antique look to it—a bas relief of a young man with the words 'St. Genesius, pray for us' inscribed around the rim.

"He's the patron saint of lawyers, one of 'em, anyway. That's what Nancy said. She said we needed more than one." Hardcastle grinned. "She had it blessed by the Pope."

"Friends in high places," Mark murmured.

"Yeah," the judge's grin had softened a little. He reached out and touched the medal with one hand, as if memory itself was a benediction. "She gave it to me when I was studying for my bar exams."

Mark nodded, closed the box slowly, and slipped it into his pocket. "Thank you," he said, taking another deep breath.

"We oughta be getting home," Hardcastle said, stepping down off the porch of the church.

"You think they're waiting up for us?" Mark asked.

"Hah, Aunt May and Aunt Zora? They'll be waiting up with _refreshments._"

00000

As predicted, May and Zora's home cast a warm golden glow through the first-floor windows and out onto the snow. Gerald was dozing on the sofa, but the two women scurried to take care of coats, as they expressed their general disapproval of the dangers of taking a chill.

Zora proceeded to ladle up two glassfuls from the contents of the cut-glass punch bowl on the sideboard. "The Hardcastle family recipe," she smiled, as she handed Mark his and the other to the judge. "Good for what ails you."

"Lots of vitamin C," May smiled as she drew off a small glass for herself.

Mark looked down at the raspberries floating in the amber liquid and took a tentative sip, then a longer swallow. Not hot chocolate, but not bad, either. A couple more swallows and the judge leaned over saying, "You gotta be a little careful with that stuff, okay?"

Mark frowned, puzzled. _Pineapple juice, ah, ginger ale. The raspberries are nice touch._

"They put a magnum of champagne and two pints of peach schnapps in it," Hardcastle advised quietly, "sometimes three if they're in a really good mood."

Mark's eyes got a little wider, as he stared at May and Zora with a slightly different type of respect. Both women smiled back at him beatifically.

"Bedtime, I think," he said, putting his glass down carefully, on a copy of the Ladies' Home Journal so it wouldn't mar the varnish.

"Yup," Hardcastle seconded it. "We got a turkey to eat tomorrow."

00000

The next time Mark awoke it was broad blazing daylight, and the smell of turkey was already wafting up the stairs. He stumbled out of bed, squinting through the frosted glass and out at a blanket of white. All right, it would be a pain and a half for driving and would probably wreak havoc with their flight out tomorrow, but it was beautiful—once every eight years.

He smiled and looked down at his watch. Breakfast was probably pretty pointless, unless there were homemade powdered-sugar donuts.

00000

"And when he heard about the barn, and the straw, yesterday evening, Reverend Busby drove over there himself, in the church van, and fetched them back to the apartment," Zora finished with a flourish, in open defiance of the fact that her nephew had not yet completed the requested background check.

"And the Ladies' Guild is putting together a layette for Billy Postgate," May added.

The two of them were in fine high spirits—women with a mission. Zora had already done the first four rows of a crochet cap this morning.

Hardcastle sat back, full to capacity with corn-bread stuffed turkey, candied sweet potatoes, lima beans, and creamed onions. The table had finally been cleared, and May was carrying in the pumpkin cobbler, when the doorbell rang. She looked up, a bit quizzically.

Mark got to his feet, grinned, and said, "I'll get it," as he stepped out of the room.

Minutes passed and the judge's first look of cheerful satiety gradually clouded into puzzlement. There weren't even any voices to be heard. Zora's eyebrows were up in a question. May was frowning a bit. Gerald shoveled another mouthful in. Hardcastle laid his fork down and put his napkin aide, excusing himself.

As he stepped into the living room, he saw the reason for the quiet. The front door was only half-open, and he could see Mark's outline, through the lace curtains, along with another man's. They were out on the porch, standing a little to the side.

Drawing a little closer, he could hear their voices, though not the words. The tone was serious, but not unfriendly. Now he could see the other man more clearly—an Army uniform, a corporal, infantry.

Hardcastle grabbed the surge of anger he felt, shoved it back down and closed a lid on it. They were just . . . talking. Aaron Jordan's face was turned down, and a little away; the judge might almost not have known who it was, were it not for the uniform. A few moments more and the conversation was obviously drawing to a close. He couldn't see the handshake, but it was there—he was sure of it, and then, most unexpected of all, Mark put his hand on the other man's shoulder, a quick gesture—of what . . . support?

Then the Jordan kid had turned and was going down the front steps. Mark watched him for a moment, and the judge watched them both. Hardcastle was still standing there when Mark turned back to the door and came in.

He looked up, flashed a quick smile and said, "I hope you saved me a piece."

"What did he want?" The judge tried to keep his voice even; he wasn't sure if he'd succeeded.

"He was apologizing." Mark's smile was back, a little more thoughtful. "He said he'd wanted to come over sooner, but he was embarrassed."

"Hmph."

"He said he's tried to talk to his dad a few times and . . . well, he's staying with the Pickett brothers while he's on leave. They've got a place between here and Clarence. He's gotta get back to Ft. Stewart in a couple of days. He's hoping to make sergeant pretty soon."

Mark seemed to run out of words. There was a moment of silence and then finally the judge said, "Where the heck did you learn how to do that?"

"Do what?" McCormick frowned.

"Put it down like that."

The frown stayed a moment longer, then it suddenly dissolved into an impish grin as he said, in an exaggeratedly confiding tone, "Well, it wasn't from _you_."

"Didn't think so," Hardcastle said dryly.

And then, in another instant, the grin was transformed. "Really, Judge," his smile was serious again, "people _can _change."

Hardcastle was looking past him, into the dining room, where his younger brother was finagling another slice of cobbler from his ever-patient aunts.

"Maybe," he said, finally, after a long and doubtful pause.

"Well," Mark slapped him on the back, "that's a start."

00000

That their flight out the next day was cancelled, due to the weather, bothered the two men not one iota. By the time Gerald drove them to the airport, on Tuesday morning, much had been accomplished. Mark had resurrected Daniel Postgate's truck. Police Chief Sheridan, much to Hardcastle's relief, hadn't been able to find anything worse than a moving violation on Postgate's record. Aunt Zora had a cap and a pair of booties done, and Postgate himself had gotten two coats of paint on the back porch, including the new banister.

There'd been hugs and kisses on the front steps. And then they'd left the Hardcastle sisters, deep in plans with Daniel for the construction of a new tool shed, as well as a cold frame, and shelves for the cellar.

The drive itself had been quiet, but relaxed. Mark had, rather pointedly, taken the back seat, leaving the two other men side-by-side in the front. While neither had had a lot to say, it seemed like a natural silence after the bustle of the previous three days.

Gerald parked, and saw them into the terminal. As they were standing there, the judge finally cleared his throat and spoke, though it was only to ask his younger brother how long he'd be staying on in Worden.

"Dunno," Gerald replied, still unusually quiet, maybe a little wary. "Might help that kid with the shed. Looks like a two-man project."

Mark saw Hardcastle start to open his mouth. He heard the words that hadn't yet come out, as clearly as if they had been already spoken. _He'll say, 'Gerry, what the hell are you talking about? You don't know one end of a hammer from the other.'_ McCormick winced in anticipation.

The judge looked over at him, a sharp, quick glance, and then his eyes dropped, maybe a little abashed. There was a fractional pause, and then he said—fairly quiet himself, and with something approaching sincerity, "Sounds like a plan, Gerry."

Mark managed to keep the look of astonishment off his face. Gerry didn't, but his fumbling for a reply was covered as the judge went on—

"Maybe you can come out to L.A. sometime this spring. Mark'll be finished with studying in a couple of months. Bar exam'll be over. We could catch a Dodger's game."

"Ah . . . yeah, sure," Gerald caught his breath.

Mark thought it sounded like lines from a play, and that neither man had had much practice.

_But it's a start._

The boarding was announced. He watched the two of them shake hands, as if they'd concluded the negotiations of a treaty. Then they were parting, with good-byes and take cares.

It wasn't until they were seated on the plane, that the judge spoke again. This time it was preceded by a heavy sigh. "You know, he's gonna screw up."

"Yeah," Mark grinned, "probably, and then you get to say 'I told you so.' It's a win-win situation."

Another sigh. "I gotta figure you'd look at it that way." The judge was staring down at Mark's briefcase, half-stowed under the seat in front of them. He segued neatly, "And you never even opened it once, huh?"

McCormick grimaced.

"Well, you've still got two months."

"Seven and a half weeks, now."

"Okay, so, there's three guys—Tom, Dick, and Harry. They meet at Harry's apartment and, while they're there, Harry's landlady overhears them discussing a plan to rob the First National Bank. The next day, Tom and Dick are arrested inside the Amalgamated Savings and Loan, using a gun to try and make an unauthorized withdrawal. Tom is found in possession of a map which Harry gave him, with directions to the First National, but he admits to the investigating officers that he and Dick got lost on the way there.

"Discuss Harry's culpability with reference to the acts of conspiracy and solicitation—mens rea and actus rea—and what implication the change of target would have, if any, in terms of a defense."

Mark eased back in his seat and smiled. "You want me to include the Substantive Steps Test as it applies to Harry's map v. the factual impossibility of it being a map to a different bank? And do you want me to include a discussion of Wharton's Rule and the list of proper utterances?"

"I want you to stop showing off and answer the question, hotshot. We'll be in Dallas in forty minutes."

"Well," Mark's smile turned into a grin, "the way I see it is—"


End file.
